


Once Again, Robert

by Salamon2



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - ISOT, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Butterfly Effect, Chaos Theory, Character Study, Co-Written, F/M, Gen, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-08
Updated: 2014-12-15
Packaged: 2018-02-12 06:55:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2099835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salamon2/pseuds/Salamon2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Robert Baratheon figured he was likely to win this Rebellion until some sorcery or act of the Gods turned everything on its head. As his army was marching to the Trident to face Rhaegar suddenly he finds himself and every Knight, Noble, and High Lord under his command thrust into a different time, where the folk say it's 298 AL, not 283 AL, and there's five kings instead of one to fight.</p><p>A story based off of the AH.com principle of the "ISOT" or "Island in a Sea Of Time" effect--time travel by another name and on a larger scale. A co-authored project with CaekDaemon from AH.com.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Robert in a Sea of Time

**Author's Note:**

> As mentioned in the summary this is a co-authored project that CaekDaemon & I are working on over at AH.com. This will be updated sparely in comparison to my own work as both Caek & myself have our own projects, not to mention lives.
> 
> With his blessing, I am sharing this here. If interested in commenting at AH.com here is the link to the thread:
> 
> http://www.alternatehistory.com/discussion/showthread.php?t=311781
> 
> (Warning: You need to be a registered user to see the story at AH.com, due to the subforum it's labeled under).
> 
> For those unfamiliar with the concept of an ISOT, it stands for "Island in a Sea Of Time", which is based off of a Sci-Fi novel by that name in which an island and its occupants are sent back in time. The concept has been explored and expanded to mean "large scale time travel" to "mental time travel" to simply a catch phrase at AH.com for "time travel". In this case we're using the term to mean "large scale time travel". ISOTs are generally employed by creatures named "Alien Space Bats" or ASBs on AH.com (essentially a Deus Ex Machina in the form of a large humanoid bat in a spacesuit), which makes the event occur "just because" and for little other reason (ASBs are almost sadistic that way--especially one little guy named "Skippy" who can't seem to keep himself from meddling in everything). After the ASB has caused his or her trouble he or she then disappears (rarely to interfere again) as he or she sits back and watches what happens along with the rest of us. 
> 
> The point of an ISOT thus is more to explore how the characters cope with such an event disrupting their lives & how they interact with their new environs, and less so exploring why the event took place. As such expect a lot of character feels as the story develops.
> 
> Needless to say both Caek and myself own nothing and are simply entertaining ourselves and you, dear reader. So, sit back and enjoy.

**Between the Stoney Sept and the Trident...**

* * *

_Gods, what is her name?_  
  
Robert was being "nursed" back to health by some camp follower, but he couldn't even think of her name. _She's got big tits, so..._ For most of the whores following the army he hadn't even needed to pay for them - he was handsome, strong and going to be king, after he killed the bastard who kidnapped Lyanna. He and his forces had moved from Stoney Sept following the Battle of the Bells. Even wounded, he had crushed Rhaegar's squire with his warhammer with ease. _And fucked every woman in that brothel they hid me in._ He smiled as he thought of the battle as he thrusted, still unable to remember the name of the women beneath him, even as she moaned in delight. It wasn't going to be long, now, the end of the war was in sight. The Trident wasn't far away, there he would smash the Targaryen host, kill Rhaegar, head south, take King's Landing. Then Eddard would kill the Mad King Aerys, Robert would marry Lyanna and be crowned King!  
  
 _What then?_  
  
 _Ned will head back to the North, as my good-brother. I'll have to take Lyanna to visit him, he'll want to see his nephews and nieces!_  
  
 _Jon Arryn will be my Hand, Stannis will have the Stormlands...I'm going to be bored without anyone to fight._  
  
He considered the possibility of invading Essos. Or maybe the Summer Islands. With Seven Kingdoms at his beck and call, it wouldn't be hard to smash the Free Cities and appoint a Lord Paramount. _About time we did some fighting for a change!_  
  
After he finished, he remembered the name of the woman. "Bessy, what do you make of our odds?" he asked, lifting himself off her and grabbing a flagon of wine.  
  
She smiled at him and said, "You're going to be king."  
  
He smiled back at her. She had some sense in her. "Damn right. Rhaegar is coming north with forty thousand men at his back, and in a few days, there will be forty thousand more men in the ground."  
  
Robert wondered if Lyanna would let him bring Mya Stone to King's Landing. She was his daughter, after all, with Baratheon black hair and deep blue eyes. He had played with her when she was little, throwing her into the air and catching her as she laughed. She'd be tall and strong one day.

 _I'll have to meet her when she's older if I can't take her to court._  
  
He looked in a mirror at his chest. He had almost been ran through at Ashford by some stupid young noble boy thinking he could end the Rebellion with one thrust of his sword.  
  
 _I showed him._  
  
He laughed quietly. The songs had always sang of the horror of war, but Robert wasn't seeing it anywhere. No, he was having the time of his life. There was women, there was wine, and most importantly of all, there was fighting.  
  
And lots of all three.  
  
He downed his wine before climbing back into his cot with Bessy for another round.  
  
There was a thunderous bang and a flash, then he found himself on the floor in his armour, his warhammer at his side and his steed next to him. He got back to his feet and lifted his warhammer.  
  
"What sorcery is this!?!" he shouted.  
  
Ned, as solemn as ever said, "Robert, the army is gone."  
  
Robert looked around.

 _Seven hells! Where are my men?!?_  
  
Jon Arryn rushed towards him and asked, "Your grace, are you alright?"  
  
Robert took off his antlered helmet. "I am." He realized now, that all the Lords in the army, Hoster Tully, Martyn Cassel and all the others, were also in their armour, their weapons and horse next to them.  
  
Robert shouted at the top of his voice, "If the Seven have done this to us, then they've done it to Rhaegar, too! We go to the Trident!"  
  
The lords cheered and saddled up behind Robert as they headed south to the Trident river.

_I don't need an army to kill Rhaegar Targaryen!_


	2. Harried Lands

**A few days later...  
  
**

* * *

**  
**Hoster looked around the lands. His lands. As they traveled, they frequently passed burnt out houses and slain smallfolk.  
  
 _The King is truly mad if he believes we will let this go. There will be a race for his head._  
  
He had only joined the rebel cause when his daughters were wed. Catelyn to Eddard Stark and Lysa to Jon Arryn. Catelyn had been betrothed to Eddard's elder brother Brandon, but when he was executed by the Mad King that obviously should have meant the end of that arrangement. But no, she had been wed to Eddard in Brandon's stead. Hoster smiled, from their brief interactions with one another—most especially the smiles that both Lord and Lady Stark had had the morning after the wedding—it seemed like she would find joy in her marriage. Lord Stark was an honorable and kind man.  
  
 _And Cat is already with child, too._  
  
Lysa, on the other hand, was much less content. She had always hoped of marrying the man of her dreams, whom Hoster had suspected she’d created in the image of Brandon Stark.  
  
She instead had received Jon Arryn, whom was even older . _The only match I could make for her since Petyr, the Seven damn his name, soiled her!_  
  
 _I can only hope she comes to love her husband._  
  
He looked to his brother, Brynden. __  
  
The Blackfish. For good reason.  
  
He said, "Whoever done this will pay."  
  
Brynden turned to him and nodded, saying " _If_ what Robert Baratheon says is true, that the Royalists have lost their army, then it won't be long till we've won this war."  
  
Hoster asked, "What makes you so sure?"  
  
Brynden pointed at the giant Baratheon, riding his steed and looking like the Warrior incarnate. He held his warhammer over his shoulder, holding the reins in the other hand while wearing his antlered helmet. "A  harper against that, Hoster."  
  
Hoster gave a slight laugh. Even here amongst the burnt out ruins of their land, Brynden still had his dry wit.  
  
One thing was for certain. After this, the Tullys will have the loyalty of the Riverlands ever after for helping to put down the King—no more bickering upstart lordlings challenging their family for a few generations.  
  
As they continued on, they came upon a house from which they could hear a woman sobbing, then a shout came from up ahead. It was the King. "You lot! Get away from her!" Hoster and Brynden looked through the group - Jon Arryn, King Robert and Eddard Stark rode at the front, with Hoster and Brynden behind them, but the group stretched on for nearly a hundred yards behind them, the nobility of the North, Riverlands, Vale and the Stormlands all assembled for war. Robert Baratheon lowered his warhammer ready for a fight. Hoster led his horse through the ranks of lords to get a proper look for himself.  
  
It was a group of men in chain, with a mix of weapons and a few crossbows too. Their tabards were yellow with three hounds in black. They stood around a young woman, no, a young girl. Hoster guessed her to be five and ten years of age.  
  
And her clothes were torn.  
  
 _They were going to rape her._  
  
The men looked at them in a mixture of horror and confusion, completely silent.  
  
Hoster spat angrily, "What in seven hells are you doing!?! Throw down your arms before we change our minds!"  
  
They took a look at the massive group of lords. "Yield!" shouted one of them as he threw his weapon to the ground, the rest quickly copying him, throwing swords, maces, axes and daggers to a pile on the ground. King Robert demanded, "Where is Rhaegar's host? Where is the bastard?!?"  
  
The leader of the group stared at him dumbfounded. "Rhaegar? He's been dead for sixteen years, milord."  
  
Jon Arryn corrected the man, "Your grace. That is King Robert you are speaking to. How could Rhaegar be dead?"  
  
Robert Baratheon took his helmet off casually, completely unafraid of an ambush. At the sight of his long black hair one of the marauders shouted, "He's back from the dead!"  
  
Robert Baratheon laughed loudly. "I am bloody well not dead!"  
  
Hoster turned to Robert and said, "These men must be drunk out their wits, your grace."  
  
Robert nodded. "Seems that way."  
  
Eddard said, "They might have information about where Rhaegar's host is, Robert."  
  
Robert turned to the man he treated like a brother and said, "Send them to Lord Bolton. He'll get some answers out of them."  
  
Eddard grimaced, but nodded his head to show he would obey his King’s command. The reputation of House Bolton extended far beyond the North. Hoster shivered at the mere thoughts of what Lord Bolton might be capable of and decided it might be best to leave such worries to his goodson.  
  
 _May the Seven never see fit to have the man as far as he can be from Cat._  
  
That evening when they made camp, the Leech Lord had some work to do. _A naked man has few secrets, a flayed man none._ Roose Bolton was an unsettling man - he wasn't hideous or anything like that, no, some would probably think him handsome if not for his pale white eyes. Hoster could not bear to look the man in his eyes, yet alone speak to him. Whenever he spoke, his voice was quiet and soft.  
  
 _If anyone will get the location of Rhaegar's army out of those men, it's him._  
  
 _May the Seven have mercy on their souls._


	3. Learning the Truth

**Later that day...**

* * *

  
  
Within the quickly raised tent, the prisoners were tied to wooden crosses and stripped to their small clothes. Roose walked past each of them, his pale eyes taking in their shivering forms. The night was cold, dark, and the chill of the wind did make it seem almost as cold as the North.  
  
"You will tell us what we want to know." he stated quietly.  
  
The reputation of the Boltons was known even in the most isolated recesses of the South. Even the Clansmen of the Vale knew of the Boltons - so fearsome was their reputation for flaying their enemies alive. They had even flayed the King in the North, once. The men were silent at his words, refusing to give him anything. Roose nodded and walked over to a simple wooden table that they had found in one of the ruined houses. Atop of it was a leather toolkit, much like the one a locksmith had.  
  
He said, "Whereas other houses have Valyrian steel swords, we have a Valyrian steel flaying knife." He rolled out the kit and plucked a small knife with an incredibly thin blade made of smoky black metal. "Thin enough to cut the skin from the muscle beneath without damaging either."  
  
He turned to a household knight sworn to him and gestured. He stepped forward and placed a large black hound on the table, its throat slashed. The tied men stared at the beast that was the very image of the sigil that they had worn on their surcoats. He slid the blade through the skin beneath the lower lip and down the body, making sure they kept a clear view as he cut.  
  
"A flayed man can take hours to die, even days." He looked at each of them in turn, giving them a slight smile as he cut along the legs. "They say the process is excruciatingly painful."  
  
The men began to sweat, even in the cold as they muttered prayers quietly.  
  
He said, "The gods cannot save you, but the truth will."  
  
He pulled the complete skin from the hound leaving just the skinned body for them to stare at.  
  
He said simply, wiping the blade on a cleaning cloth, "Give me the truth."  
  


* * *

 

  
It was impossible, absolutely impossible. Ned could not believe it for a minute. _This cannot be possible!_  
  
“They told you what?!” sputtered Robert, as shocked by the revelation as Eddard.  
  
“That the year is 298,” repeated Lord Bolton, his voice quiet.  
  
“The men are obviously lying,” assured Jon, unwilling to believe. But there was a tone in his voice, a tone of nervousness, the tone of a man considering the possibility that they had been given the truth.  
  
“I doubt they have any secrets left,” repeated Lord Bolton ominously. "They were very _cooperative_ towards the end."  
  
Ned’s eyes narrowed, he knew House Bolton’s words as much as any Northerner, and their reputation, “You didn’t—”  
  
“You can search them yourself, my liege. Their skin is intact and on their bodies,” was Lord Bolton’s cool reply.  
  
“What if the men are not lying?” asked Lord Tully.  
  
“It’s impossible!” insisted Ned. The Starks had reigned for eight thousand years. Eddard knew the history of his family well and he knew many of the incredible tales he had been told by Old Nan occasionally had a grain of truth in them. _But none of them had people traversing time itself._  
  
“I admit it seems impossible, but what if by some sorcery or an act of the Seven we have been brought forward in time?” said Hoster, looking at each of the men to see if they agreed.  
  
“Why us, and why now?” asked Ser Brynden.  
  
“Mayhaps we’re needed now, _if_ it is true,” suggested Jon, grasping for truth.  
  
“What else did you learn from these bloody raiders, Lord Bolton?” asked Robert, clearly considering the possibility of being thrown through time, but also curious as to what this...future...was like.  
  
“You won the rebellion it seems, your grace, took the crown and married Lord Tywin’s daughter.”  
  
“Over Lyanna!” protested Robert.  
  
 _There it is, then. He would never marry Cersei Lannister._  
  
Eddard knew of the daughter of Tywin Lannister. She was an incredible beauty, that he knew first hand from when he saw her at the Tourney of Harrenhal. But it was not her he was interested in that day, but rather a young Dornish woman, sister to a member of the Kingsguard.  
  
“He did not say why, just that it happened. A few months ago Lord Arryn died.”  
  
Everyone looked to Jon, who merely shrugged his shoulders and bid Lord Bolton to continue, unfazed by the mention of his death.  
  
“Lord Stark was then proclaimed your Hand. Apparently during this time Lady Stark has taken Lord Tywin’s youngest son, the Imp as they call him, hostage and has gone to the Eyrie.”  
  
“Cat took the lad hostage?!” remarked Ser Brynden disbelievingly.  
  
 _I've only known her for a while, but Catelyn wouldn't do that without reason. Would she?_  
  
Their wedding was only a short time ago, but it was incredibly important to the war. Hoster Tully had been indecisive at first, till his daughters were wed he had preferred to stay out of the war altogether - the Riverlands have never fared well during a war, what with being the crossroads for several kingdoms not to mention the Ironborn under House Hoare. Once Eddard had married Catelyn Tully and saw Lysa wed to Jon Arryn, he had quickly became one of the staunchest supporters of seeing Robert Baratheon on the throne. But a number of his vassals had risen against him, choosing the King over their Lord Paramount, a difficult choice. And of course, there was Lord Walder Frey...Who had yet to bring his host to either side.  
  
“Interesting that after she did so she took him to the Eyrie, so soon after Lord Arryn’s death,” remarked Lord Tully. _  
  
Why didn't she take him to Riverrun or Winterfell?_  
  
“It is for that reason that Lord Tywin sent a man they call the Mountain—”  
  
“The Mountain?” asked Ned. He had never heard of a man called the Mountain before.  
  
 _Brandon would've known, if anyone._  
  
“Gregor Clegane,” explained Lord Bolton.  
  
“Wasn’t he the knight that Rhaegar knighted recently?” remarked Robert. Gregor Clegane was a giant man - he had rode at the Tourney of Harrenhal, but was unseated quite early. He was furious, but was knighted for his efforts which seemed to calm him somewhat. He carried a greatsword bigger than Ice and he wielded it one handed, too, with a shield in the other hand, all the while wearing the heaviest plate in all of the Seven Kingdoms, so colossal was he.  
  
 _Like a giant from Old Nan's stories._  
  
“Well, he’s one of Tywin’s bannermen, that’s the important part—what did he send this ‘mountain’ to do?” asked Ned.  
  
 _He had to have a mission and I doubt they would send a giant to negotiate a ransom._  
  
Lord Bolton’s reply continued to be as cool as a northern wind, as he stated, “To harry the Riverlands in response to Lady Stark’s abduction of the Imp.”  
  
Lord Tully looked around him at the Riverlands - if what Lord Bolton said was true, then the damage done to his lands was not caused by the Royal Host but rather by the 'mountain' and his Lannister masters. And Eddard knew there was only one answer to such a ravaging.  
  
“And what has been done in response?” asked Ned. _  
  
Surely the Lord Tully of this time had sent a force to bring him to justice?_  
  
“The man said that Lord Stark sent out a brigade of men from King’s Landing to bring them to heel, but the man said that the ‘mountain’ has already killed the leader of that brigade.”  
  
“And meanwhile the Riverlands burn,” commented Lord Tully sadly, looking at the ruined town nearby, the town in which they would be staying the night. A veritable army of lords needed a large place to stay, and it also gave them a place to get their bearings and plan, too, while also allowing them to lay low for a little while, in case a large force was near.  
  
“The man said that I was dead—did you find anything more out about that?” asked Robert solemnly. Eddard could see on his friend's face that he was eager to find out who did him in, probably so that he could introduce them to his warhammer.  
  
“Apparently news from King’s Landing has reached the Riverlands that the King has died, Lord Stark has been beheaded by the crown Prince Joffrey for treason and holds the Stark daughters hostage against their brother who marches south.”  
  
As soon as the Lord Bolton finished the sentence Robert burst out laughing. "Ned? Commit treason against me?"  
  
 _Treason?! What madness is this? I would never commit treason against any son of Robert’s._  
  
He paused as Robert laughed. Mayhaps it has something to do with what his wife did abducting this Imp. Concerning news of these children the thought seemed so strange, almost unreal.  
  
 _I have a son. And two daughters?_  
  
He had known that his wife was pregnant - a courier had brought him the message as the army maneuvered through the Riverlands.  
  
 _If they were born then...They would be five and ten years old, grown in their own right._  
  
Eddard himself was only a few months past his twentieth name day - his children would be almost the same age as him. He considered briefly what his children could look like - would they have his grey eyes, or the blue eyes of his lady wife? What hair colour? He was brought back to the real world as his good-father spoke.  
  
“This sounds like one confusing muddle,” admitted Lord Tully.  
  
“One thing seems clear to me, though, if we have been brought here by some force beyond our knowing, there seems to be one common theme running in the people mentioned in what this man has said—we are all dead in this time, if this is not indeed some sort of plot” concluded Jon.  
  
“Pox, I say it’s a plot by Tywin and Aerys to confuse us!” insisted Robert. _  
  
He doesn't want to believe that he has lost Lyanna. I don't want to believe it, either._  
  
“It’s too complex to be a mummer’s farce made up by either of them,” corrected Ser Brynden. The Mad King was too far gone to come up with a sound plan for a feast, yet alone a grand deception on this scale.  
  
Just then a scream was heard in the far distance. They looked to where it came from and saw a tiny village being ransacked by what looked like more men dressed in the sigil of the three dogs, with one gigantic man among them that seemed to be their leader.  
  
 _That must be him. He's even bigger than he was at Harrenhal!_  
  
And amongst the screaming villagers was what appeared to be a man from the Night’s Watch doing battle with the giant, and seeming to be less than a challenge to the titanic warrior. Immediately Ned felt that they should engage, but Robert had charged ahead with his warhammer, the rest of the lords charging into the fray behind him, weapons raised. Ned sighed.  
  
 _It's the right thing, but the wrong way to do it._  
  
He drew Ice and charged forwards. Against hundreds of lords and knights the two dozen men-at-arms were no match and were felled quickly.  
  
But the colossus was another matter altogether.  
  
"Ned!" shouted Robert, fighting against Gregor Clegane. One of the antlers on his helmet was missing, smashed off by a near miss that could've taken his head. Eddard rushed into the fight as Robert roared, swinging his warhammer so hard as to cave in the thick shield the giant had, causing the beast to shout in pain. Robert commanded, "I'll keep his attention!"  
  
Eddard nodded quickly, running to the side as Robert assaulted the man. The giant was big, but he was slow - against Robert he was a good match, true, but it took all his attention, else Robert would cripple the Mountain with a single swing of his warhammer.   
  
_Robert is fast and strong. This...monster is just huge!_   
  
The immense man raged, swinging his sword towards Robert, but the Stormlord dodged to the side and swung towards the Mountain's chest, but instead caught his arm as he covered his chest.  
  
Eddard waited for an opening - with one strike he could decide the fight as the men-at-arms began to fall. As the Mountain pushed forwards towards Robert, the joint at the back of his left knee came clear, showing the chainmail beneath. He thrust Ice into the breach, the Valyrian steel blade punching through the chain and into the flesh beneath before erupting through the other side in a coat of hot crimson. The man shouted as he fell to one knee, his own size betraying him as his sword slipped from his grasp. He looked up at Ned and at Robert, "You are both fucking dead! You came back like that damned Lighting Lord! Does nobody stay dead anymore?!?"  
  
Robert glanced at Eddard before roaring, more a beast than a man, swinging his warhammer down into the man's helmet. With a sickening squelch, his head became one with his neck and then his chest, his body slackening. Robert kicked his corpse to send it falling to the ground and raised his warhammer triumphantly to the cheers of the lords around. Lord Hoster and Brynden looked at the corpse and smiled - there was the man who had ravaged the Riverlands.  
  
 _Or what is left of him._  
  
“I think we’ve met the Mountain,” commented Ned as he took off his helmet. Robert removed his damaged helmet, shaking his head to shift his long black curls.  
  
Just at that moment one of the boys from the group that had been attacked by the Mountain ran forward towards Eddard, moving as fast as they could.  
  
“Jon!” shouted the boy with a mixture of confusion and excitement.  
  
“Excuse me?” asked Ned, turning to look at the young boy.  
  
But as he looked into the boy's grey eyes - _Stark grey eyes_ \- the boy stopped his sprint, freezing where he were. A moment paced and he said, "F-father?" stuttered the boy confused. He stared at his face just as he stared at theirs, and then renewed his sprint and hugged him tightly, looking up to him through his dark brown hair before he could even respond.  
  
 _It's impossible._  
  
It was impossible, and yet the proof stood right here before him.  
  
 _How do I respond to the lad?_  
  
Ned cautiously patted an arm around the boy, which the lad seemed to take some comfort in, and squeezed tighter. He looked at the boy—yes, the features were right he _had_ to be a Stark. The only other possibility was a Karstark or a member of the cadet branch in Barrowton, but what purpose would they have for being in the south? What brought him out of this reverie was the sound of footsteps approaching from the dispersing crowd.  
  
“Arry?” asked a voice which at once sounded like Robert’s and yet…  
  
“Seven Hells!” exclaimed Robert with a laugh, and Ned turned to see coming forth was another boy, closer to the age of a young man. The young man was dressed as a smallfolk would, had short black hair, piercing blue eyes, and in every possible way was Robert Baratheon's spitting image. Standing next to Robert who came up to the boy with a sense of bewilderment, the resemblance was undeniable.  
  
The impossible clearly was possible. There was no other explanation.


	4. The Children

**Later that day...**   
  


* * *

  
  
Arya sat in the tent that had been given for her and—at her insistence—her friends, Lommie, Hot Pie, and Gendry. The sight of Gendry had caused quite a stir amongst the men who had defeated the Mountain. They had commented about his black hair, his muscles and his eyes and how he bore a strong resemblance to one of them. Men who included her father—but that was impossible, she’d _seen_ his head taken off by Ice. And yet here he was _with Ice_. She had hugged him just to be sure she wasn’t dreaming. He had stank of sweat and blood from the fight, but beyond that it definitely had been her father’s smell. But then again he wasn’t exactly like father… he looked different. Arya couldn’t describe it. She had confused him for Jon at first because of the difference… like he was less tired and weary, and without any hint of grey amongst his beard or hair… he looked younger. Yes, younger. But father couldn’t have become younger? _  
  
Could he?_   
  
Mayhaps this was yet another brother her father had sired, like Jon, but had never known about? Then why did he openly wear the sigil of House Stark? None of it made any sense, nor did it explain away that he smelled like father. Not even Jon smelled like father. None of his children did.  
  
It was then that he appeared at the entrance to the tent. He asked for Lommie and Hot Pie—who had been arguing over which cot was theirs—to give him some time alone with his son. The two boys left and Arya felt her heartbeat race faster than she had ever felt it before.  
  
Yes, he was her father… and yet he wasn’t.  


* * *

 

  
The boy was there, sitting on the edge of his cot… the boy who looked so like him, so like a Stark. He sat down on the cot next to his… No, he had not sired this child, so it felt wrong calling him his… son. But yet… something wanted to still say it nonetheless, deep inside of him.   
  
_He looks like me...how can this be?_  
  
“You called me father,” he commented cautiously, carefully taking the conversation forward one step at a time.  
  
“You look like him, and you smell like him,” the boy replied.  
  
Almost tempted at that to smell himself he asked “Do I?”  
  
“Aye… but you’re too young to be him. And… I saw him die.” A cold chill went down his spine at the mention of his demise.  
  
 _He saw me die? Gods what a future to have come to?_  
  
Ned admitted, revealing his own cluelessness in exchange for his honest answer, “I’ve recently come to this… place.”  
  
“So you’re not from Westeros?” the boy asked immediately.  
  
“Yes… and no… honestly, I know not how to explain it.”  
  
His eyes narrowed as he said, “Try.”  
  
“I don’t know it all myself… the only thing to say is that I come from the year 283, while everyone else around here insists it’s—”  
  
“298—almost 299,” added his... boy.  
  
Ned nodded his head in agreement, “Aye… that year.”  
  
“That sounds rather fantastical,” commented his boy, doubtingly.  
  
“Aye, but it’s the truth.”  
  
“How do I know you’re not another brother my father got on another woman besides my mother?” asked his boy almost threateningly.  
  
 _I have a bastard? Gods…_  
  
He couldn’t comprehend betraying Catelyn, not at all. She hadn’t been his choice, and neither had he been hers, but dishonoring her was too much. He would never dishonor any woman he married, no matter how little he knew them, even if they despised him with all their heart.  
  
“Another brother?” Ned asked.  
  
His boy nodded and said resolutely, “Aye. I have a brother named Jon who my father brought home with him from the war.”  
  
 _That name… she called me Jon before. I must have named him for Jon… Gods, I must truly have a bastard if he can confuse me for his bastard brother._  
  
“Where is your brother?” he asked.  
  
“At the Wall, when we came South mother kicked him out of Winterfell and he went North with Uncle Benjen.”  
  
Benjen’s at the Wall? Well, he’d always talked about joining when he was a boy—his head had been filled with tales of Starks on the Wall by father—Osric Stark being a favorite of his—the Boy Lord Commander. He always loved Old Nan's scary stories, too, but rather than getting scared by them he saw them as reinforcing his duty to join the Night's Watch so that no one had to be scared of the old monsters anymore.   
  
_He never wanted to be a lord. And the Wall has had many Starks and Snows of Stark blood serve in their turn._  
  
“You say I brought Jon home to Winterfell?” he asked.  
  
“Aye, Sansa told me that mother came to Winterfell to find him there with his wet nurse.”  
  
“Your poor mother…” muttered Ned, wondering what in the hell had he—this other him had been thinking. Taking responsibility for one’s bastard—aye, that was the noble thing to do. But raising him alongside his trueborn children?   
  
_That's something else entirely..._   
  
There was only one answer that he could think of to explain this. He, no, the other him, had fallen in love with a woman during the war. Had he already met this woman? Had he been fated to fall in love with her and sire a child on her? He must've cared about this woman greatly for him to have brought the babe to Winterfell. That was the only explanation.  
  
“Who’s Sansa?” asked Ned. It was a girl's name—a distant but pretty family name, not widely used—but he hadn't heard of any Sansa when he was at Winterfell before he left on campaign.   
  
_One of Catelyn's handmaids?_  
  
“My older sister. She looks just like mother,” commented his boy.  
  
Ned briefly imagined a younger looking Catelyn and found that he was rather fond of the idea of having a Tully daughter. But he wondered just how much older this daughter was. Had his firstborn been a girl? He had received a message while on campaign that she was with child, and he had prayed in front of the nearest weirwood that he would survive the war so that he might see the child be born, to see them grow into a strong and honorable lord or a beautiful young woman.  
  
“Tell me more about your siblings… umm…” He hesitated as he tried to think of the boy's name.  
  
Gods, he hadn’t even thought to ask his boy, _his son_ , his name. Would it be Brandon? Most likely, he could see himself having a Brandon. There was always a Brandon or a Branda in each generation of Starks, for so long had it happened that it had become a tradition of it's own, as much of their history as the tradition, no, the rule, that a Stark must always remain in Winterfell. He knew not why it was, not even his father or Old Nan knew, but in the eight thousand year history of his lineage it must've been picked up at one point or another. When he was very little, he had once played with his father's uncle, Brandon. He had been a kindly man, if old. What had become of him in this...new world? Had he died sometime during the long gap between then and now? _  
  
If he's gone, he will be missed. He would've wanted to see his great grand nephews and nieces._  
  
“Arya,” his boy said at long last.  
  
“A—arya?” Ned questioned.  
  
He froze before he could say more. Arya was a family name—his grandmother on his mother’s side had been named Arya Flint of the Flint Clan from the mountains. She’d fallen in love with Rodrik “the Wandering Wolf” Stark—who for a time had joined his sword to the Second Sons sellsword company during his travels that had taken him across Westeros and beyond into Essos. Brandon had thought that he had once gone south to the Summer Isles, a land of ebony skinned men and women famed for their archery...and their lovemaking. But this child in front of him was no son of his… this was a _daughter—_ a daughter whose countenance was very much akin to Lyanna’s now that he looked on her. They had the same grey eyes, the same nose and the same cheeks. As a child Lyanna had loved to dress like a boy and would have likely kept her hair short if she’d been allowed. He gave her a small smile. The way they both acted was the same.   
  
_Lya must have had a hand in raising her..._  
  
He looked at his girl.   
  
_How could I not have seen it before?_  
  
His next immediate thought was that she would need a tent of her own, with fresh clothes to replace her worn out ones and a dependable escort to keep her safe from any more raiders that could be near.   
  
_I'm not going to let her out of my sight...but if she's like Lya, she'll find her way into trouble eventually._  
  
His first thought was the Greatjon Umber. He was as strong as an ox, a fine swordsman and devoutly loyal to the Starks. Once he had even mentioned the idea of Eddard being the King in the North following what happened to his brother and father in King's Landing and how Rhaegar Targaryen had kidnapped his sister.  
  
“Well… Robb is the eldest. He looks exactly like mother. He knows a few good japes. He was born just as the war was ending at Riverrun,” began Arya, fulfilling his wish to hear of the other, no, _his family_ in this time.  
  
Ned smiled at the thought of his son and heir being named for Robert.   
  
_Aye that would be a good name for the lad._  
  
For some reason hearing of Robb sounded much more real to him, since he felt he had quickened him with Catelyn, not this other Eddard.  
  
“Then there’s Jon… he looks and acts exactly like you… He gave me my sword before he left Winterfell,” explained Arya as she stood and pulled out the small sword at her side for him to see.  
  
Ned took the lithe little thing from Arya’s hands and examined it.  
  
If Lya had ever gotten her hands on one of these, father would have never seen her again. The blade was quite small, but designed for expertise rather than blunt force.   
  
_The perfect sword for a Water Dancer… or a woman…_  
  
As he looked over the sword he noticed a small little marking near the hilt and he smiled once he recognized it.  
  
“Mikken’s mark…” he said without thinking as he rubbed his thumb over it affectionately.  
  
“If you own a sword, I trust you know how to use it?” asked Ned as he handed her back the sword.  
  
Arya seemed to stare at him as he said that and then smiled as she took it from him and sheathed it.  
  
“Aye, father hired a first sword of Braavos to teach me,” she answered easily enough.  
  
 _A first sword of Braavos?! Gods I spoiled her._  
  
“It’s called Needle,” added Arya  
  
“A blade with a name…” said Ned with a little laugh.  
  
“You really are father…” she said with a clear mixture of disbelief and joy.  
  
He was then tackled by Arya in a fierce and needy hug that Ned was at first shocked by before accepting and wrapping his own arms tightly around her.  
  
 _Gods, it’s almost like finding Lya…_  
  
Ned wondered if he would meet her when he returned to Winterfell or when they came to King’s Landing. Had she married Robert as his Queen  
  
“Then there’s Sansa. She was Septa Mordane’s favorite. Always the perfect lady, with her perfect needlework…”  
  
 _I hired a Septa?! Catelyn must have insisted…_  
  
“And that is why you called your sword needle?” asked Ned. At this his daughter… yes, his daughter smiled and hugged him once again.  
  
She then continued, “And then after me, there’s Bran… he also looks like mother. We used to sword fight with sticks in the Godswood until…”   
  
“Until?” asked Ned. Up until that moment it sounded like Bran—definitely a Brandon—was much like Benjen.  
  
“He liked to climb… he fell from the North Tower just before we were to come south...” elaborated Arya.  
  
“Did he… die?” asked Ned.   
  
_Gods, let me not have lost a son before I’ve known him._  
  
“No, but he cannot use his legs anymore… and he had so wanted to be a Kingsguard…” pouted Arya.  
  
 _A fate worse than death… the poor boy… I’ll have to see what I can do for him._  
  
Finally Arya finished with, “And lastly there’s Rickon. He also looks like mother, and he’s stubborn and likes to have his own way with things, but mother says that it’s just because he’s little more than a babe and doesn’t know any better.”  
  
“So besides… Jon and yourself, all the rest of… your siblings look like your mother,” clarified Ned. He did not mind that. Having a small school of little fish with wolfish personalities did not bother him in the least, especially with this little wolf pup that was so like Lya.  
  
“Aye…” admitted Arya sourly.  
  
“You don’t sound quite happy about that,” nudged Ned in the way he did Lyanna whenever she wasn't quite so talkative.  
  
Arya looked at him again oddly before admitting, “It’s just… well, Jon was the only… and sometimes I—I mean sometimes I thought that I… that I was like Jon…”  
  
 _The poor girl… not feeling a part of her own pack…_  
  
“Tell me, Arya… did your mother ever treat you differently?” queried Ned.  
  
“N—no…” stuttered Arya.  
  
“But she treated Jon differently?” asked Ned leadingly.  
  
“Aye,” admitted Arya ruefully. Ned winced at the truth, but then he reminded himself that Catelyn was a Southron.   
  
_Of course she would treat my… bastard differently._  
  
“Then that right there should calm your fears. For a mother knows her own children better than anyone else,” said Ned.  
  
Once again Ned received a hug in response.  
  
“And what of your Aunt? You’ve told me about everyone in the family besides her,” he prodded, fearing that she may confirm what he suspected.  
  
 _Please Gods… let her live…_  
  
At this Arya looked confused but then seemed to realize something. He could tell just from how her face shifted that Arya had never known her Aunt.  
  
“S—she died, during the war. Y—you said that you found her just as she was dying…” mumbled Arya as though she were trying to get a handle on what she was saying.  
  
Found her just as she was dying? Gods, he could just see the scene now… poor Lya in his arms as she drew her final breath…  
  
“From what?” asked Ned emotionlessly.  
  
“A fever…” admitted Arya.  
  
 _Of course, the Gods would be that cruel… I would arrive too late to bring her home…_  
  
He fought back the urge to cry, though he felt like he should. It would do no good to cry in front of… his daughter. Not in front of Lya reborn. Instead he held her tighter in his grasp and they just sat there together in silence for a little while.  
  
It was not long thereafter though when their silence was disturbed by his goodfather entered the tent.  
  
“I hear I have a grandson…” he said hesitatingly.  
  
“Granddaughter,” corrected Ned automatically. Arya simply stared at her grandfather as though she had never seen him before.  
  
His goodfather simply stared at Arya and said, “By the Seven…”  
  
“You look like Robb… only a lot older,” said Arya bluntly, and Ned’s mood rebounded if only for a moment.  


* * *

 

  
Robert swilled his cup of wine slightly as he walked over, holding his warhammer with one hand as he walked towards a young man who could've only been his son.   
  
_He looks more like my brother than Stannis does!_  
  
In a mirror they looked almost like twin brothers aside from the small difference in age between the two of them. Gendry was strong and built the way a proper stag should be. With the same blue eyes they looked at each other as Robert walked over to his son.   
  
_If all my sons are like this..._  
  
He smiled. He was already taking a liking to his boy. He could handle his wine well, they'd tested that earlier during dinner when a dozen of the lords wondered who would be the better drinker, the son, or the father?   
  
_I won. Not even tipsy, but he lasted longer than most men did. Someone else tried to keep up with us and was passed out by the sixth round. Hah! That's my boy!_  
  
He downed his cup before setting it aside so he could grip his hammer properly.   
  
_Noye did a good job with this...I wonder if he's still alive? He always was a tough bugger, you'd need a giant to kill him._  
  
He stood in front of his son, letting the head of his warhammer rest on the ground. He shook his head towards the weapon and said, “Now, I want you to try your hand at this.”   
  
Gendry looked at it wide eyed and said in his awe, “It’s a warhammer.”   
  
Robert laughed at the look on his face and said, “Aye, I know it’s a bloody warhammer. I don’t need a… what were you again?”   
  
Gendry looked from the weapon, back towards his father. To the both of them it was as though they were looking in a mirror, the voice and the echo standing next to one another. “An apprentice blacksmith, your grace.” Gendry spoke with the utmost respect for his king and father, and if Robert was right he heard a hint of admiration, too.   
  
_Only right for him to admire his Da._   
  
Robert's hand went to his bearded chin as he thought.   
  
_Makes sense, he's got the shoulders for it._  
  
“Smithy… right—good occupation… if I hadn’t been born a nobleman, I might’ve tried my hand at it myself, I've always been good at hitting things, heh.” Gendry smiled, and Robert continued, “Anyway, I don’t need a smithy telling me what I already know.”   
  
Gendry nodded, “Of course, your grace.”   
  
Robert let go of his hammer, letting it stand on its large head. Donal Noye had called it a maul when he had first given it to Robert, but to him, it was a hammer, a tool. He stepped back and gestured with his hand for his son to grab it. He stepped forward, sizing up the weapon first before gripping it tightly and pulling it off the ground. His face reddened slightly, but that was to be expected.   
  
_No one has ever lifted a warhammer for the first time and found it easy._  
  
He hefted it carefully, adjusting the position of his hands to better hold the hammer, getting closer to the same posture that Robert himself had.   
  
_Using a warhammer is in his blood._  
  
Robert commanded, though it less of a command and more fatherly encouragement, “Now, I want you to try swinging it around.”  
  
Gendry smiled, then took a practice swing. As the weapon gained momentum, he saw his son be pulled around by the weight of the hammer's head. He compensated for it well enough before changing posture, a overhead swing. Immediately Robert saw where the problem was there.   
  
_He's holding it like a blacksmith's hammer._  
  
He swung down, one hand directly beneath the warhammer. He could practically hear the rattle of Gendry's bones as the vibration went up his arm. He didn't laugh, no, he watched intently, seeing where he could help his son improve his technique. Finally, Gendry, panting for breath and his face reddened from the exertion, lifted the hammer again, though he didn't have the strength to swing it any more than the few tries he had.   
  
“Heavy innit?” Robert asked, walking over to one of the few flagons of Arbor gold they still had with them. He poured himself a cup, but also one for his son. He walked over to him with both cups in hand as his son nodded in agreement, still holding the hammer.   
  
“Aye… your grace…” said Gendry, his stance changing to let him keep holding the warhammer even as his muscles tired.   
  
_That's got to hurt._  
  
He smiled at his son, a hint of pride slipping through as he did.   
  
_Not bad for his first try._  
  
“You can put it down now, lad.” he said, sipping his wine. Gendry tried to lower it to the ground, but it slipped from his weakened grasp and he was lucky to get his feet out from underneath it a second before it would've crushed them.   
  
Robert laughed, Gendry gave him a funny look for a moment, but smiled before laughing with his father. Robert gave Gendry his cup, and he eagerly drank the Gold, grinning as he did with a look of satisfaction on him.   
  
_He's probably only ever had swill before that._  
  
Robert explained, “It takes a lot of practice and work to fight with one of these things. It's more than just raw strength, lad, it's posture, with a little agility, too.”   
  
Gendry brushed a dew of sweat from his brow with the back of his hand and nodded. “I can tell… your grace.”   
  
Robert nodded and added, “Which is why I’m going to have you start your training now.”   
  
Gendry looked at him shocked, and spattered out, “What?”   
  
Robert kept a more or less blank look on his face as he spoke, but inside he was beaming with pride. “You said you wanted to be a knight, lad, right?”   
  
Gendry grinned and nodded, saying, “Aye.”   
  
Robert smiled, pointing to the bull shaped helmet his son had with him when they found him. It was a well-crafted thing, strong and hard like the man who would wear it one day, a good sign of the things to come.   
  
_Might be a good idea to have him look at my helmet. That huge bastard almost took my head off, but he hit one of the antlers instead._  
  
“Got that there helmet already made and everything, right?” he queried. Gendry beamed at the mention of his helmet, smiling at the sight. He nodded to his father. Robert slapped him on the back and with his usual boisterousness said, “Well, how are you going to be my squire if you can barely lift my warhammer, lad? Now I know you’re used to the tiny things the smithies use, but let’s start again!”  
  
And like steel against a flint he saw a fire start in his son's eyes, a powerful passion for this. Robert grinned.   
  
_Aye, he'll give it his all._


	5. Fathers & Brothers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The five part plan grew into a gigantic monster, so Caek & I cut off the last two parts originally slated for this chapter in favor of getting the first three parts out before the New Year. Do enjoy! Many apologies for the long wait.

  
****************************  
  
 **ROBERT**  
  
Robert smiled as he looked upon the great peaks in the distance, the mighty Mountains of the Moon looking more like hills from this distance than the enormous peaks of hard rock that he knew them to be from years in the Vale. But even from here he could see the highest tips rise into the clouds, a thin film of snow covering the smaller mountains like blood on a battle hardened blade. It was a rocky and steep land, a stark contrast to the flat and forested Riverlands, but only a fool would believe that the Vale was inhospitable. The soil in the valleys were as fertile as any in the Riverlands or the Reach, and the primeval forests filled with game, and hunters more interested in killing prey that walked on two legs and not four.  
  
 _Clansmen. They're not stupid enough to attack a party as big as ours, but they'll try and pick us off at night, or attack our outriders._  
  
Robert was not good with numbers or any manner of courtly intrigues, but if there was one thing he truly excelled at it was the command of an army, and he knew the terrain in the Vale from those years he had spent there with Jon and Ned, he had been taught how to spot an ambush long before it was sprung, and how to plan one of his own in the process. It had only been a few days since Eddard had found his daughter, a trueborn daughter who was supposedly Lyanna's spitting image, but Robert had been too busy to pay her any attention - he had come up with a plan that would ensure the mountain clans never got an opportunity to attack his men, whether during the day or night. They were to travel in the shape of a diamond, dismounted, with their motley supply train in the center and surrounded by their best fighters.  
  
 _A knight on horseback out here is useless. But if they find us dismounted..._  
  
He grinned widely behind his helmet, the antlers repaired.  
  
 _It won't be to their liking._  
  
His bastard son, Gendry, his new squire wrapped in thick furs, spoke in shock as he saw the mountains in the distance. "Those are the Mountains of the Moon..."  
  
Robert laughed. "They're just babes, wait till you see the larger ones near the Eyrie. The winds up there are so cold your cock will freeze off while taking a piss if you don't wrap warm."  
  
At that, his son flinched before tightening the pelts that served as both armor and wrappings. Without their proper baggage train they had no choice but to forage for supplies by hunting in the woods and buying whatever they could from the peasantry for a fair price in coppers and silver.  
  
There was a trot of horse shoes behind him as Ned rode up on his palfrey, wearing as much fur as a direwolf. He was pale, but not from any illness or lack of food. Robert asked, "That girl of yours scare you somehow?"  
  
Eddard shook his head grimly. "Arya, that's her name--she told me..."  
  
"Told you what, Ned?"  
  
Eddard sighed and then looked straight at Robert, straight into his eyes. "Lya didn't survive the war… she's dead, Robert."  
  
Those few words hurt him more than any wound he had taken before in life, as much as the time he had watched his parents die upon the rocks of Shipbreaker Bay. She was his betrothed, the reason he rose to war, the reason he had sworn to destroy house Targaryen, root and stem, the reason he had taken the crown in the first place. He was doing it all for her, to bring her home the same way the heroes in the songs did to their kidnapped princesses. What was a king without a queen, the knight without his maiden and the lord without his lady?  
  
 _No...that can’t be true..._  
  
He asked, praying to the gods as he did, “Are...you sure she is telling the truth?”

Eddard nodded in silence as the other lords looked upon them with sorrow, men who had followed Eddard and Robert for whatever reason.  
  
It took all the strength he had to stop himself from crying in front of his men.  
  
 _I...I loved her...everything was for her…_  
  
He turned away from Eddard for his own sake, and for half an hour of riding he said nothing to no one, thinking only of the future with her that had been stolen from him, stolen by that Targaryen filth they called a prince. In silence he dismounted from his horse and gave the reins to his son and headed through the group, to the small group of carriages bought from the lowborn to carry their supplies in the heart of the group, and to his shock he saw the girl sitting upon a barrel of apples on the back of one of the carriages, bored. Her hair was the same, her face was the same, her eyes…  
  
She was Lyanna born again.  
  
He gasped behind his helmet. He had seen her before around the encampment, talking to his son, but he had never paid her much attention, not with the responsibilities of command taking so much of his time...he raised the faceplate of his helm and walked over, climbing onto the back of the carriage and sitting besides the girl, who looked at him in surprise. She said quietly before looking at the ground passing beneath them, “I’m sorry about my aunt.”  
  
He sighed. “As am I, girl...she was to be my queen...Tell me, what did they...do...with her?”  
  
Arya explained as he soaked up every word. “She was buried long before I was born, in the crypts at Winterfell.”  
  
“Did...did I ever visit her? Pay my respects?” _Seven damn me now if I didn’t._  
  
Arya nodded. “You came to Winterfell to make my father Hand, but you spent a lot of time in the crypts.”  
  
“What about before then?” he asked.  
  
She shook her head. “I don’t think so.”  
  
 _I...I visited her once?_ ** _Once?!?_**  
  
He growled in anger at himself, the Robert Baratheon of this strange world. How could any version of him not visit his betrothed’s resting place more often that? What man had he become after the war? What cold and dead thing had replaced his heart? The Robert of this world must have been a wretch of a man to so obviously ignore the very woman for whom he had gathered an army and toppled a king for. He asked bitterly, the very words tasting wrong in his mouth. “Do you know how she...died?”  
  
Arya shook her head. “I don’t. Father brought her back at the end of the war. He never spoke about it, though.”  
  
 _He wouldn’t. He loved her as much as I did. Gods...how could this happen? How could_ ** _he_** _take her from me? Seven hells I should have killed him at Harrenhal!_  
  
He could imagine it, challenging the prince to a duel in front of the entire realm, and throwing his broken body in front of Aerys the Mad for all to see. It would not have been hard. Rhaegar was a better musician than a warrior. He hadn’t rode the lists in any tourney before Harrenhal, and had taken everyone by surprise when he had.  
  
And in hindsight it was rather obvious that the Kingsguard had thrown the fights to make him look better, and the lords were too scared of his father to ride against him properly. He never entered the melee, only the joust… and Robert had always been a favorite at the melee. Three swings were all he would need, one to shatter his shield and arm, the second to knock him to the ground, the third to send him to the Seven Hells screaming in the pain he deserved.  
  
He sighed. Rhaegar was dead in this world, as was his betrothed. He had stolen her from him twice, once in life and again in death.  
  
What purpose did he have now?  
  
 _What should I do…? The realm is broken, my Lya is dead, Rhaegar is dead, the Dragons are gone…_  
  
Searching for a purpose in the world he asked Arya, having to remind himself that she was Ned’s daughter. “How was I as king?”  
  
She said almost without thought, “You got fat.”  
  
He blinked in surprise. “I got _fat?_ ”  
  
He laughed, and the girl laughed with him. Seeing a younger Lyanna, a young girl that even _sounded_ like the woman he loved lifted his heavy heart. He ruffled her hair, making her laugh again. He asked, half japing, “How was the realm? Terrible?”  
  
“When I was at King’s Landing, the entire city looked poor and stank horrible. And when we travelled there too, the villages and towns didn’t look too good...and Joffrey...he’s a nasty bugger--he had the Hound kill my friend Mycah, all because--”  
  
She was speaking to fast for him to keep up, so he interrupted her by asking, “Who is Joffrey?”  
  
She seemed to recall herself then and blinked before saying bluntly, “Your son.”  
  
 _That’s right, my son by Cersei Lannister._  
  
He then prompted, “And who is this Hound?”  
  
Arya’s reply was still rather blunt, saying, “He’s the Mountain’s younger brother.”  
  
 _The Mountain...that was that huge bugger Ned and I killed. If my son has his younger brother on a leash and killing for fun, then he’s no better than Aerys was! Seven hells, why didn’t I ever challenge him?_  
  
 _If I had known he was a monster I would’ve have put my hammer through him, kinslaying and his mother be damned!_  
  
“Of what house was this Mycah?” asked Robert.  
  
“None. He was the butcher’s son… and the only one who’d duel with sticks with me. Sansa and him came and then Joffrey pulled out Lion’s Tooth and ruined everything!” railed Arya.  
  
“Lion’s Tooth?” queried Robert, caught once again as she spoke of things he didn’t quite know.  
  
Arya fought to suppress a smirk, but failed as she said, “That’s what he called his sword.”  
  
They shared a look of incredulity and then laughed once again, though it didn’t last as long as it had before as a somber mood settled over them both.  
  
 _What kind of Baratheon names his sword Lion’s Tooth? But then what kind of Baratheon grows fat? A fat stag is only good for feasting on--not for leading men in war or inspiring his son to be a stag instead of a lion..._  
  
“What did your butcher’s boy do then?” prompted Robert.  
  
“He dropped his stick. Joffrey then started taunting him to pick it up, but Mycah wouldn’t. Then he started hitting him with his sword.”  
  
 _Hitting an_ ** _unarmed boy?!_** _The lad might’ve been one of the smallfolk but that doesn’t matter!_  
  
“And then what happened?”  
  
“I jumped in with my stick and disarmed him.”  
  
“With a stick?”  
  
“Aye.”  
  
“You defeated a son of mine, wielding a sword, with nothing but a stick?!”  
  
“Aye,” nodded the girl  
  
 _This boy can’t be of my blood, he can’t possibly be of my blood!_  
  
“And then he tried to come at me again, but Nymeria bit him.”  
  
“Nymeria?”  
  
“She was my direwolf pup, before she ran away. She only gave him a little nip to keep him from hurting me,” stated Arya rather oddly, avoiding his eye as she spoke.  
  
“You had a direwolf as a pet?!” exclaimed Robert in disbelief, caught for a moment thinking just how this world’s Ned had braved hordes of wildlings bringing a direwolf pup for Lyanna reborn, like something out of a song.  
  
 _Gods Ned, you spoiled this one… not that I blame you… if I could I’d have half a mind to spoil her too…_  
  
Her eyes “We all did. Father found a whole litter in the Wolfswood suckling on their dead mother who had a stag’s antler in her neck. There was one for each of us--even Jon!”  
  
 _Jon? Oh, she means Ned’s bastard._  
  
  
“Wait, did you say your father found a whole litter of direwolf pups, one for each of his children, with a dead mother killed by a stag?”  
  
“Aye. Mother had said it was a sign from the gods.”  
  
Robert had never been particularly religious before, but living through this now, he was beginning to rethink that as one of his follies. Even he could tell what those wolves had been--a sign from the gods. They had been warning this world’s Ned about what was to come…  
  
 _The gods have spoken...we must listen, or ignore them at our own peril..._  
  
“What did Joffrey do after your wolf bit him?”  
  
“He cried to his mother who had Lady killed.”  
  
“Lady who?” interjected Robert.  
  
“Lady was Sansa’s direwolf. It wasn’t her fault at all, and yet the Queen said she wanted a wolf pelt! It wasn’t fair at all, Lady didn’t do anything and the Queen and Joffrey forced father to kill her!”  
  
There was one hole to her argument, “To harm a Prince is a serious crime.”  
  
 _Even if the prince is a mad weakling?_  
  
Robert had no easy answer for that, and so he put it to the side.  
  
Arya’s eyes grew wide at that, and he half expected her to kick him and run away.  
  
Instead Lyanna reborn turned sullen and muttered, “Aye, but Lady didn’t do anything.”  
  
Since she was big enough to admit that, he felt it easier to admit, “Aye, and it was ill done.”  
  
 _Ill done indeed._  
  
At this, Arya looked up at him with suspicious eyes, as if appraising him.  
  
“And now he’s holding Sansa.”  
  
He stared at her and asked, “What?”  
  
Arya now seemed to grow increasingly distressed, as though she were about to burst into tears that never came, “Joffrey has Sansa hostage. He had my father’s household killed, he had Syrio killed, he had my father killed by Ser Ilyn Payne with Ice and called it mercy, and he has Sansa.”  
  
 _A mad king… kidnapping of a Stark girl… war. Everything’s happening all over again._  
  
 _Mayhaps that’s why I’m here? Mayhaps that’s why the gods--the Old ones or the Seven, it doesn’t matter which--have brought me here. They tried warning this time’s Ned and Robert, but they failed, and so they brought us to bring justice._  
  
 _It won’t happen again--not if I can help it! I can--no,_ ** _will_** _be better this time. I’ll be a better man, a better father, and a better king!_  
  
He then met Lyanna reborn’s eyes and vowed, promising to stop the cycle of history from turning once again, “I swear to you, when we can, we’ll go to King’s Landing and I will free your sister, my lady.”  
  
“I’m not a lady!” protested the girl with a pout--and looking at her in her trousers and secondhand squire’s clothes, she was right, she didn’t look like one.  
  
 _Aye, but whether you look like one or not, I shall protect you._  
  
****************************  
  
 **ROBB**  
  
The news in his hand was at once welcoming and nerve wracking. It could only be Jon—that was the most likely possibility—no, the _only_ possibility. Jon must have heard what had happened at King’s Landing and come south to help him get vengeance for their slain father, just as Ned had for his brother and father years ago. Nothing could make him happier than to have Jon at his side again, even if it made his mother angry to see him there. There was just one problem.  
  
 _Has he taken his vows yet?_  
  
He swallowed as he considered what it meant if Jon had broken his oath...then he slapped that thought away, never even daring to consider the possibility. His brother was a good and honest man and nothing else.  
  
 _He would never break his oaths. He wouldn’t have left if he had sworn them...and if the rest of this letter is true...he might have some allies with him. Warriors who might be able to bring a few houses over to our side..._  
  
Robb knew immediately that there was only one thing to do: he would have to send someone to get Jon and his comrades and bring them to Riverrun at once. Then, together, they would avenge father, rescue Sansa and protect the North and the Riverlands from any who would seek to them harm together.  
  
 _But who to send?_  
  
It was then that Theon arrived, dressed in black and proudly emblazoned with the golden kraken of his house across the chest, fine clothes given to him by Eddard on Theon’s last name day that had made him even happier than the new bow he had got.  
  
“My King, you’ve been thinking on how to take King’s Landing, have you not?” asked Theon, walking to the table in the center of the room.  
  
Robb sighed. “Aye—a task made near impossible without ships. The Starks haven’t had a proper navy since King Bran the Burner…”  
  
 _Having a fleet would make this war so much easier..._  
  
Theon grinned widely. “But my family has them…”  
  
Robb smirked to himself, “Aye, they have ships, but what exactly are you suggesting?”  
  
“Send me to Pyke with the offer of an alliance as a fellow King and I promise you, we can take King’s Landing in a few moons at the very least!” insisted Theon, obviously believing every word he said and proud that his family might be the key to victory.  
  
The offer was certainly a tempting one. Not only would it give him the fleet he so desperately needed to win the war, it would open up another way into the Westerlands. A way that did not require him to break through the Golden Tooth or march up the Goldroad and have to brave Deep Den. The Ironborn could storm Lannisport and open a second front, enough to distract the Lannisters and allow him to thrust into the beating heart of their power and break the Lannisters once and for all.  
  
 _We might even be able to take the Rock..._  
  
 _But Jon is close..._  
  
Neither his mother or any of her kin could go and no one else knew Jon enough to be able to tell if it really was him...and that meant Theon was the best man for the job, even if he and Jon might not have gotten along as well as Ned might have hoped they would.  
  
“Your plan is sound… but before you go to Pyke, I have another task for you.”  
  
“Whatever it is, I shall perform it.” answered Theon with a proud smile that had become more and more common as they smashed the armies of the wealthiest house in the Seven Kingdoms together.  
  
Robb smirked once again.  
  
 _Always the cocky one, aren’t you?_  
  
Robb interjected on Theon’s own behalf, “You haven’t even heard what it is yet.”  
  
Theon’s eyes met his and he firmly stated, “You wouldn’t ask anything of me if it wasn’t important.”  
  
Robb sighed, “Indeed… word has reached me of the Mountain’s death.”  
  
“Thank the gods for that!” chortled Theon heartily.  
  
“They say he was killed by two men. One was a man dressed in gold with a black stag… and the other in white with a grey wolf running across its field...and they also say that the second man had the Stark looks.”  
  
It took Theon only a moment before he smirked and replied, “Your mother’s going to kill him if she hears word of him wearing that!”  
  
Robb almost laughed before he explained, “She won’t hear a word as I’m sending her to treat with Renly Baratheon.”  
  
 _By the time she gets back, Jon will already be here._  
  
“To see if we can combine our armies to siege the city?”  
  
 _Aye, after I make sure that Lannister reinforcements will never aid the capital…_  
  
Robb smiled.  
  
“Also, there’s word of a boy looking like the elder’s younger brother.”  
  
 _If anyone could escape from King’s Landing…_  
  
Theon looked confused for a longer period of time before recognition hit him, as he said with an affectionate laugh, “Arya.”  
  
“I can trust no one else with this task, Theon. None of my men know them on sight as well as you do. It should be easy to find and bring back our brother and sister. After that, you will sail to Pyke with an Honor Guard.”  
  
“ _Our_ brother and sister?” asked Theon with some confusion even as the words he had spoken on the day Robb became a king echoed through his mind.  
  
 _“Are you my brother?”_  
  
 _“Now and always.”_  
  
Robb warmly stated, “You are as much like a brother to me as Jon is.”  
  
Theon looked at him in shock before smiling again. The smile genuinely reaching his eyes.  
  
“I… I would be honored to bring you… _our_ sister and bas—half-brother.”  
  
“Good, you’ll have some men to accompany you and while you’re away, I’ll have the tailors make you something fit for a Princely envoy to greet his Kingly father in.”  
  
Theon had always had a thing for finely made clothes, so the promise of princely attire certainly sweetened the deal, though Robb was sure the status that such fine clothing meant was probably even more enticing. Taking an increasingly rare moment to relax from the stress of command, he japed, “Maybe I’ll even have the smiths forge you a breastplate from all the gold we’ve captured from the Lannisters.”  
  
 _Gods only know why they walk into battle with so much of it on their weapons and armour. I’ve seen more gold on their bodies than I have ever seen at Winterfell…_  
  
Theon laughed as he headed to the door to carry out his task. “And show my father what I’ve been doing during the war?”  
  
Robb nodded.  
  
 _Why not? Mayhaps it could even help._  
  
Theon added, “I best get going before our wandering brother gets himself in trouble. The Lannisters will want his head for bringing down Clegane after Jon got lost on his way to the Wall.”  
  
Robb’s laughter slowly died as he rolled out a large and detailed map of the Westerlands after Theon departed the room to ready himself for the journey. He knew that Theon and Jon never got along well, the two of them being like ice and fire, but he hoped that the war against the Lannisters would keep the two of them at peace and maybe even make them into friends. All three of them were united by one purpose: to see their father avenged. He recalled Theon’s words to his mother before she had departed for King’s Landing.  
  
 _“Lord Stark is a second father to me, my lady…”_  
  
Aye, they all were brothers together.  
  
 _And with all of us together again...the Lannisters won’t know what hit them._  
  
Robb placed the pieces onto the map one by one, each representing an army great or small, and he sent a guard to find his great uncle and his other commanders. There was a war to be fought and won and every moment away from the reins of command was another that the Lannisters used to move their hosts...and another that Sansa spent in custody at the Red Keep.  
  
 _There’s more than one way to slay a lion._  
  
*************************  
  
 **NED**  
  
They had been on the approach of Darry for nearly half a day, having decided to journey to the Eyrie where Jon hoped to convince Lysa and his bannermen to come to their wits and aid them.  
  
Jon was well known for not having easily fathered a child, so his being believed to be who he was would be much more easily accepted than either Ned or Robert would, given their… bastards’ existence. Ned could only hope his goodsister would recognize Jon as easily.  
  
They then came to a place where the King’s Road ducked through a small patch of trees the Southrons called a “wood” which Ned nearly laughed at when he heard that, being used to the wide expanses of Hornwood and the Wolfswood. But upon entering it, Ned had the disturbing feeling they were being watched. He looked among the trees and saw nothing until they turned a bend in the road and their ears could hear the faint strumming of a harp. It was a little ways until he saw the source of the ethereal music--it was a minstrel sitting lazily upon a rock by the edge of the wood playing a haunting melody, one that reminded him of a song he’d heard once before a few years--or many years in this time--ago at Harrenhal. The song’s beauty however did not match that of the minstrel playing it, who had a thin face and long nose with long brown hair that looked as though it had been hacked at rather poorly the last time it had been cut.  
  
Robert seemed to have recognized the song as well, for a dark mood seemed to cross his face like a storm cloud might the sun. But when the minstrel stopped the song abruptly without finishing it to acknowledge them as they passed, this look seemed to dissipate like a summer shower.  
  
“G’day minstrel,” began Robert, with a bit of gruffness to his voice.  
  
The minstrel nodded as he said, “G’day, milord.”  
  
More of Robert affability seemed to return to him as he continued, “Pray tell me how far it is to the crossroads?”  
  
The minstrel’s lips puckered slightly in thought before he answered, “Why about a score of miles yet.”  
  
Ned’s eyes met with Jon’s and he knew that they would likely make it before nightfall.  
  
“We thank you. For your information,” replied Robert as he pulled out and tossed a silver stag to the man.  
  
“You are most generous, milord,” and then the minstrel did strum his harp as he asked, “Mayhaps one song before you and your men are on your way?”  
  
Robert seemed to ponder the matter before saying, “Aye, if you can play something cheery, I’ll give you yet two more silver stags.”  
  
Ned was rather uncomfortable with how Robert was throwing his money away on this minstrel--money which would have to sustain them until they got to the Eyrie and Jon took his rightful place as its lord--but he held his tongue for the nonce. He would speak with Robert later, when they were in private.  
  
“Ahh, you set a challenge… for I fear the days of merry songs has come to a close… but I think I know just such a song to satisfy you milord. It’s called _The Floppy Fish_.”  
  
At the word “fish”, Ned saw his goodfather and great uncle turn to give the minstrel--who they had hardly acknowledged before--their full attention.  
  
The tune was a sprightly tempo, and Ned could imagine many a smallfolk dancing to such a song by a warm fire on a cold winter’s eve in the North...something his brother would have liked.  
  
“There once was a lad, born to a father brave,  
who told him to take what he had and all that he gave,  
but the merry young trout drank a big ol’ draught  
and his future just couldn’t be saved.”  
  
There was a general laugh among the men who had stopped to listen to the minstrel’s tune, and Ned saw his goodfather begin to grow as red as what red hair was left in his beard. The tempo increased along with the volume of the minstrel as he transitioned into the chorus.  
  
“The Floppy Fish, the Floppy Fish,  
You heaved the wine and slipped, squish squish.  
I bet you think you came, you wish.”  
  
More laughter was heard as even more men had stopped to listen as the chorus continued.  
  
“The Floppy Fish, the Floppy Fish.  
You couldn’t even stand to piss,  
with how much you drank to steal a kiss,  
The Floppy Fish forever will ye be.”  
  
His goodfather and gooduncle appeared to be half in shock and enraged all at once as the minstrel continued on to the second verse.  
  
“With one pint he swilled he then called for more,  
so he could swim through a stream o’beer.  
He had one mug, two mugs, three and four score!  
‘fore the tavern’s kegs were clear.  
He then sallied a wench whose name I do yet hold dear,  
who he slighted by calling a whore.  
But the lusty young trout put up a big ol’pout  
and the comely young wench gave in.”  
  
It seemed as if the entire forest shook with laughter then as the minstrel once again turned to the chorus, as Ned saw his goodfather kick his palfrey forward through the crowd to get to the minstrel.  
  
“The Floppy Fish, the Floppy Fish,  
You heaved the wine and slipped, squish squish-”  
  
It was then that at once his goodfather drew his sword and pointed it at the minstrel, silencing the minstrel’s voice at once.  
  
 _He certainly does not look pleased…_  
  
Ned then kicked his own palfrey to try and calm his goodfather before he did something he regretted.  
  
“And which _fish_ does this song refer to?” demanded Lord Tully darkly.  
  
The minstrel looked frightened as he recognized the fish upon his armor, his eyes growing wide as he protested, “My apologies milord. I--I did not see your banner at first!”  
  
This did not satisfy his goodfather, who then pressed his sword to the man’s neck saying, “You did not answer the question!”  
  
“Edmure Tully,” answered another voice from a short distance up the road. Ned halted his horse and turned to see a man dressed in bloodied and torn clothes with a black tabard speckled with four pointed stars and displaying a forked purple lightning bolt.  
  
“Dondarrion!” exclaimed Robert immediately.  
  
“Aye, that is my name--and if I were to go by your banner, I would call you Baratheon, but which are you? Elder or younger?” challenged this time’s Stormlord.  
  
“You called, my lord?” asked one of Robert’s bannermen with the same tabard as the man standing before them on the road, having waded his way through the tight formation.  
  
Robert, simply pointed to the man before him and a moment of silence passed as the lone man was stared at by the helmeted lord in obvious shock.  
  
“And who are you, Ser?” asked the blooded Dondarrion.  
  
“Lord Meallan Dondarrion of Blackhaven. Gods! I had heard it… I didn’t believe it… but to see it… to see you… Seven Hells!”  
  
A look of confusion crossed the unarmored Dondarrion’s face as he said, “It seems familiar.”  
  
“Familiar?!” spat the armored Dondarrion, who then tore off his helm and shook his head briefly before declaring, “You mean to tell me you don’t recognize the name of your own father?!”  
  
With his helmet off, the similarities between the two Dondarrions was undeniable. They looked so alike one another, with a few exceptions like the eyes and nose, that Ned could have sworn they were brothers, with the unarmored son appearing to be the elder of the two.  
  
This was truly a shock. To see this scene before him convinced Ned more than anything else he had seen or heard as to the truth of the situation. This wasn’t some dream he was having the night before an important battle… this was actually happening.  
  
The son continued, saying “I do not recall my father,” and a dark look followed by one of shock washed over him as he further admitted, “In fact, I recall very little from my childhood at all…”  
  
“Don’t recall?! Was I such a father that--” and suddenly a look of pure terror overcame Lord Meallan. Ned recognized the look as he’d seen it on Robert’s face when he’d been told that he had died. The other Dondarrion however seemed to be having a crisis of his own.  
  
“I don’t remember… I don’t remember!” shouted the Dondarrion son as he fell to his knees, clutching at his hair.  
  
“My lord?” questioned a young voice from the edge of the woods and Ned turned to see a young boy rush out of the woods and to the Dondarrion son’s side. Ned froze as he spotted the grey sword and falling star on a field of lavender upon the lad’s overly large surcoat. He was a squire, there was no other way he could not be… Ashara’s nephew… yes, that made the most sense. But by the gods did he look like Arthur Dayne… but with Ashara’s eyes.  
  
“I--I’m fine, Ned,” assured the kneeling Dondarrion quite passionlessly.  
  
 _Ned?! Ned Dayne?!_  
  
 _There could be a hundred reasons… or a coincidence..._  
  
“You do not appear well, Lord Beric,” insisted the young Dayne.  
  
Ned then saw some of the men appear to grow anxious--this was becoming a blow to morale the longer it continued. Robert seemed to have taken note of this as well.  
  
Robert urged, “G--go on ahead with the men, Jon, I’ll stay for a moment with Meallan.”  
  
Ned signaled to Jon that he would stay as well and as their men marched on he heard a few take up the chorus of _The Floppy Fish_ , only this time it sounded somber and mournful, as though it were a funeral dirge. Ned’s goodfather and gooduncle left with the men, the minstrel having long since been forgotten and disappeared into the trees.  
  
Robert then urged his palfrey forward to where the Dondarrion father stood, still in awe at his grown son.  
  
Robert attempted to cheer his bannerman, “Be of good cheer, Meallan. You may not have had the opportunity to know your son the first time, but now you have that chance.”  
  
Lord Meallan spoke quite despondently, “That man is not the boy I left behind. He’s a man grown. What is a father to a man grown?”  
  
Ned felt an eerie chill run through him as he heard the Stormlord speak.  
  
Would that be the question he would ask upon meeting Robb, his eldest--or… Jon? Men grown… at fifteen they were nearly that, hardly boys anymore.  
  
 _Gods preserve me…_  
  
By this point, Lord Beric seemed to have gathered his wits as he took notice of a half decayed head upon a pike passing by. “Who is that upon your pike?” he questioned.  
  
Robert proudly boasted, “A mountain of a man, that I slew with Lord Stark here--went by the name of Clegane.”  
  
An odd look passed over Lord Beric’s face as he turned to look directly at him.  
  
“L--Lord Stark?” quivered Lord Beric.  
  
Ned took off his own helmet then, and Lord Beric stared at him dumbstruck and then at Robert, suddenly realizing who he was. Ned felt young Ned Dayne’s eyes bore right into him--a look of half reverence and deep respect clearly etched upon his face.  
  
 _He is Ashara’s nephew… he has to be..._  
  
“I’m not the only one…” mumbled Lord Beric.  
  
“Ned, get Thoros.”  
  
This broke young Ned’s awestruck gaze and sent him scurrying back into the wood. In the boy’s absence, Lord Meallan approached his grown son.  
  
  
“Do you remember the Marches, Beric? The yellow grasslands that stretch for miles right up to the foothills of the Red Mountains, and the bright blue sky overhead,” prodded Meallan, hoping to kindle the flames of a memory, any memory.  
  
“Of course I remember the Marches. I was at Blackhaven before I came to King’s Landing for the Tourney of the Hand.”  
  
“Then, do you remember riding out with your mother to the edge of the Marches to see me off when Storm’s End called its banners? Your mother had you in the front of her saddle and you climbed out onto her horse’s neck to wave goodbye to me.”  
  
“I… I…” puttered Lord Beric, seeming to recall something of what Lord Meallan spoke--or at least it seemed that way to Ned.  
  
“Yes?” prompted Lord Meallan hopefully.  
  
But his hopes were smashed like Myrish glass in the next instant when Lord Beric stated, “I’ve told you, I don’t remember my childhood…”  
  
“Why not?”  
  
“I must have lost it when I died…”  
  
“Died?!”  
  
“Aye… Gregor Clegane killed me in battle not a few weeks ago.”  
  
“And yet you’re standing here speaking with me.”  
  
“Thoros brought me back… and doing so I must have lost a piece of myself…”  
  
“He brought you back from the dead?! How?”  
  
“Aye he did. I know not how--only that the god Thoros worships had work for me to do… but now I do not think I should have been brought back.”  
  
It was then that an older man in red robes of a red priest emerged from the underbrush, exclaiming as he looked upon Robert, “Tell me my eyes do not deceive me…”  
  
The older man, who was accompanied by Ned Dayne and a handful of others congregated around Robert and his palfrey.  
  
“R’hllor be blessed, this must be his doing!” pronounced the red priest as he knelt before Robert, followed quickly by the other men.  
  
“Long live the King!” called out the red priest, which was repeated by the other men. Robert blustered for a moment before asking the men to stand, as they did, Ned heard  
  
“My lord! Gods be praised!” exclaimed another man in a greasy sheepskin jerkin amongst them, staring straight at Ned. Ned did not recognize the man, though he seemed to have an odd resemblance that seemed familiar and yet was unfamiliar at the same time.  
  
“Thoros! Take it back!” insisted Lord Beric, pushing his way through the other men to the red priest.  
  
The red priest responded in shock, “Take back the Lord of Light’s gift?!”  
  
“Justice has been served, and I am no longer needed.” explained Lord Beric as he pointed to the rotting head of Gregor Clegane.  
  
 _What are they talking about?_  
  
“But Ser, who will _lead_ us?” interjected young Ned.  
  
“R’hllor has brought back the King and Lord Stark to guide you all and see justice done for the smallfolk… I am no longer needed.”  
  
“That is not true, ser! What about my Aunt Allyria? You promised to wed her!” insisted young Ned.  
  
“I can barely recall her… besides she would not want me for a husband--not as I am now.”  
  
“What about my training then?” asked young Ned desperately.  
  
“I’m sorry Ned. I am on borrowed time as it is.”  
  
Young Ned seemed ready to cry at that moment, but instead held back and sulked his head.  
  
Lord Beric then turned to the red priest and implored him, “Let me rest once more.”  
  
“I--I can’t.”  
  
“Then I will.”  
  
And with that Lord Beric grabbed the man named Thoros and kissed him. As soon as he did, a flame seemed to appear between the two, a flash of light shone brightly and then Lord Beric dropped to the ground, lifeless.  
  
“Lord Beric!” cried out young Ned.  
  
“Son!” called out Lord Meallan.  
  
That evening, after they had made camp, eaten, and they swapped stories of how things had come to be in full detail, a pavillion was put aside for the body of Lord Beric Dondarrion. Lord Meallan had been a mess all through their meager dinner--drinking heavily and eventually needing to be dragged away from the pavillion put aside for his son, but young Ned Dayne, Ned noticed, was notably absent from the tent he was to share with the other children near his age. In the morning, Ned rose and went to check on the boy who shared his name. At the tables breaking their fast early was his daughter taking her meal with her grandfather and great-uncle, seeming to lift their sober spirits with her quick mind.  
  
“You’re most certainly Cat’s daughter,” he overheard his goodfather say.  
  
“But I… I look nothing like her! Sansa is exactly like mother!” protested Arya, who seemed at once distressed and secretly pleased at the comparison.  
  
“That doesn’t matter. You have your mother’s mind and heart, girl, and that’s what matters,” added Ser Brynden.  
  
Arya continued to seem rather pleased and distressed to hear such news, but she seemed to accept this and move on to a jape that had her grandfather and great-uncle laughing soon enough.  
  
Ned thought it better to pass and leave his distressed goodfather and great-uncle to what comforts they could find than to linger any further.  
  
 _It’s not everyday you learn that you’ve failed as a father…_  
  
Once again Ned thought of his Tully-looking son donning a crown who had to grow up next to a bastard brother made in the image of his own miniature, and he pushed aside the uncomfortable thoughts that threatened to pop up with the association.  
  
He returned to his search for his young namesake. He had so many questions he wished to ask and worried about what their answers might mean. Ned eventually found him in the pavillion for Lord Beric.  
  
He was still by his lord’s side, likely standing vigil through the night.  
  
 _Like a good squire does for his knight…._  
  
Young Ned stood leaning on Lord Beric’s sword--the sword too large for the boy to wield himself, but it served him well as a post to lean on. He was obviously drowsy, with his eyes half closed and his stance hardly straight--but the lad had been through much already.  
  
 _He needs rest, actual rest._  
  
Ned quietly approached the resting body of Lord Beric, intending to pay his respects--as was only right now that he considered it, but his movement disturbed the sleeping star, whose bright violet eyes snapped open and met Ned’s grey ones. The two Neds stood staring at one another for a silent moment that seemed to last for an eternity.  
  
At long last the younger Ned broke the silence with a warm summer smile, “You look far younger without any grey in your beard, my lord.”  
  
“We’ve met before? Or...we will meet?” asked the elder Ned, shocked at this.  
  
The boy shook his head and admitted, “No, but I saw you when Lord Beric went to King’s Landing to fight in your Tournament.”  
  
“My tournament?!”  
  
That didn’t sound like him at all. Sure the North had its own version of tourneys, but holding a southron tourney? Nay. He could hardly imagine it.  
  
The boy answered easily enough, “The one held by the King for the honor of appointing you his Hand.”  
  
That made much more sense.  
  
He then asked for clarification, “But we did not meet?”  
  
“No, but I wish we had…” responded Ned Dayne rather somberly, frowning slightly before continuing just as seriously, “My family owes you a great honor, my lord.”  
  
 _A great honor?_  
  
“How has House Dayne come to be in my debt?” Ned asked, genuinely curious.  
  
The young Ned responded quite simply, “You returned Dawn to my aunt Ashara after you defeated my uncle Arthur.”  
  
 _I defeated the Sword of the Morning?! The greatest of Aerys’ Kingsguard?!_  
  
Ned could hardly imagine such a prospect.  
  
“Your uncle holds no ill will?” questioned Ned.  
  
The younger Ned clarified, “The dead do not hold grudges, my lord.”  
  
 _I killed Arthur Dayne... I didn’t just defeat him, I killed him... and yet he says his family owes me honor? How… how can that be?_  
  
His confusion must have shown on his face, for Ned Dayne continued his tale.  
  
“My Aunt Allyria says it was a duel of honor on both sides and that such duels should breed no grudges. You then gave Dawn and my uncle’s bones to my house honorably. My Aunt said that’s why I was named Edric, my lord, as an honor to the service you did House Dayne with that act.”  
  
 _This will take some getting used to..._  
  
“And I am… honored, but I hardly--”  
  
“What was my uncle like?” asked the young Ned.  
  
Ned paused, unsure of how to answer the Young Sword and Star.  
  
“My Aunt Allyria barely remembers him, aunt Ashara died before I was born, my father died when I was rather young, and my mother died giving birth to me.”  
  
 _Gods, he’s no ordinary squire… he’s Lord Dayne!_  
  
“But you… surely you met him--at Harrenhal,” continued the boy.  
  
And Ned was transported back to the gigantic hall of Harrenhal. He recalled the swirling silver and purple dress which matched a pair of lovely violet eyes--just like the ones looking at him now. He recalled as she twirled in the arms of a man also just like the boy before him, all clad in white armor. In his mind he saw the two of them even now dancing and laughing as they twirled across the floor of the great hall. And then he saw the dark haired woman turn to look at him, and Ned saw himself blush and look away, the vision vanishing in that instant.  
  
Ned at long last said to the eager looking boy, “Aye, I met him, but I did not know him well, Lord Dayne.”  
  
“Ned… call me Ned, please,” insisted the boy.  
  
“Ned…” he tried saying.  
  
 _Gods this will be difficult._  
  
He continued on, saying, “He was the best swordsman I had ever known--quite loyal to his King and Prince. You look just like him… except your eyes you have your--”  
  
“My aunt’s eyes…” interjected the young Lord sadly. He then quietly added, “She loved you, my Lord.”  
  
 _What?!_  
  
Once again, his reaction must have shown on his face. He noted that he needed to learn how to better guard his face of his emotions. “Aye… after you delivered Dawn and my uncle’s bones, and learned of your marriage… she threw herself from the Palestone Tower in grief.”  
  
It reminded Ned of another tale he’d heard as a child of a Stark mother learning that her son had inadvertently slain his father… she too had threw herself from a tower in grief.  
  
He blushed to admit, “I… I was attracted to her.”  
  
 _We even had… gods I can’t say that to him…_  
  
He clarified, “But I had thought she preferred other men.”  
  
 _Men like Brandon._  
  
Brandon had spoken with her long enough and enjoyed a dance of his own with Lady Ashara. He even prompted her to dance with Ned after he saw how Ned had looked towards her. Ned hadn’t thought Ashara had given him a moment’s consideration as her eyes had flitted between him and Brandon during their dance--though she had laughed enough as he had stumbled to speak his courtesies as they had danced... Mayhaps he had misjudged the situation?  
  
 _No… she had called his name… I always inherited everything that was Brandon’s..._  
  
“I am grieved for her death…” he admitted earnestly. And he was--for the world to be deprived of such a shining star in the world was a great loss indeed.  
  
The young Ned nodded somberly and then he turned to look once again at his fallen knightly lord, as if speaking about death had reminded him of his own loss.  
  
“Have you considered your future, Ned?” he asked, turning to examine the resting Lord Beric himself.  
  
Young Ned answered, “Aye, my lord. I must write to my aunt and tell her the sad news of Lord Beric’s death… she will not take it well… she was quite fond of him.”  
  
“So you do not plan to accompany his bones back to her?” asked Ned.  
  
“Nay, I… I would seek to repay the debt my family owes you, Lord Stark.” Young Ned then turned to him and knelt, “I would be your squire, my lord. You are one of the great swordsmen of the age, having defeated my uncle and the Mountain that rides--”  
  
“I had help with the last one,” interjected Ned. He would not sell Robert short.  
  
Ned Dayne continued his case, “Still, you did what Lord Beric could not do--even with a second life. You are my namesake and one of the most honorable men my family has ever known. And besides all that, I would like to squire for you myself, even without all these reasons.”  
  
What could he say to all that? To refuse would be a slight of honor.  
  
“I accept your offer, Ned…”  
  
The young Lord Dayne smiled, stood and hugged him--looking more like the young boy he was than he had before.  
  
 _May I be worthy of such honors you place on me, Ned. Gods help me.  
_

**Author's Note:**

> There will be duplicate characters due to this ISOT.


End file.
